Camping adventure
by KailaRain
Summary: This is a return to the old school salt and burn stories. Sam and Dean are headed into the mountains to deal with a basic salt and burn ghost, or are they?
1. Chapter 1

**Crystal Park**

**Chapter 1**

The cold mountain air blew loose snow across the hood of the Impala. The wind whistled softly through the trees surrounding the small clearing. Winter had not set in just yet, but the frigid bite of the thin atmosphere hinted that it was close.

Dean stirred slightly, fading in and out of semi-consciousness. He lay sprawled across the front seat of the car, blood dripping down his arm into the dark carpet. Sam was curled up in the back seat, bruises forming across his shoulder and right cheek. The icy chill of the mountain was quickly seeping through their thin clothing into their bones, leaving their skin pale and cold. If they didn't wake soon, they wouldn't make it through the night.

All was silent, save for the sound of drifting snow and dripping blood.

_**Three days earlier…**_

The mountains in the distance never seemed to get closer. Sam and Dean had been driving across eastern Montana all morning through countryside that never changed, awakening memories of the miles of open farmland near Lawrence, Kansas.

They had received the call for help earlier that week. It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn case; a ghost was causing problems with the tourists near a campground in the Montana mountains. It had reportedly attacked several groups of campers and killed at least two individuals. The boys had been driving through North Dakota and turned out to be the closest available hunters.

Dean was looking forward to the simple job. It would be nice to finally have a basic case of "find the bones, salt the bones, burn the bones, and go out for a cheeseburger and beer to celebrate". Even Sam had to admit he liked the prospect of a straightforward job as well.

The road across the Great Plains region of Montana was straight, smooth, and boring as all get out. Sam was getting sick of listening to Kansas and was tempted to throw all of Dean's music out the window. Dean, on the other hand, was enjoying the feeling of tires on tarmac. He had a purpose, a set of good tunes, and an open road. It was good to ignore all the usual chaos and to focus on something he could solve.

The road fell away behind them, and nightfall brought them to Butte. Dean maneuvered down the streets to an inexpensive downtown hotel. As they walked into the historic, albeit run-down, building, Dean smiled at his brother. "Hey, we finally get to say we stayed in a butthole."

"7 minutes, 23 seconds," came his brother's short reply.

"What?"

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you just had to start with the Butte jokes and comments," Sam sighed, although a slightly smug grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, how can I help it? Come on, they even have pictures of a giant hole," Dean protested defensively, pointing out a postcard showing a picture of Berkely Pit, a flooded strip mine near town.

"Please tell me we can get out of here early tomorrow. I don't think I can stand much more of this," groaned Sam.

"I bet they even have a bar called the Butte Hole somewhere. We are going to do this right, Sammy boy. It's a once in a lifetime chance," Dean laughed as they walked up to the front desk. The hotel clerk gave them a resigned look, clearly used to these sorts of comments. He even managed a slight smile as he gave them their room keys.

They trudged up the stairs to a typically small hotel room. It was different in its layout and design from all the other rooms they had been in over the years, but still had all the typical characteristics of a cheap hotel—musty smelling wallpaper, two beds with comforters that came right out of the 1960's, and a bathroom with a shower six inches too short even for Dean. As usual, Sam would need to shower on his knees or bend nearly in half to wash his shaggy hair.

Their usual arrival routine was a habit now. It hadn't changed much since they were kids, constantly dragged around by their father from town to town, crappy motel to crappy motel. They tossed their bags on their beds, took turns splashing water from the faucet on their faces, ran fingers through their hair and headed out for dinner and beers. Sam would never admit it to Dean, but he had somewhat missed the routine while he was at Stanford. There was a comfort in the rituals of this life.

They headed out of the hotel and found a small dive bar and grill a few blocks, a small, dingy place tucked in between a closed-down factory and a nearly-empty furniture store. Dean smirked as he pointed out the name of the bar— the Hole. Sam merely shook his head and sighed as they entered. He hated when his brother was right about little things like butt jokes and toilet humor. He also knew that anyplace with a name like "The Hole" in a town like Butte, MT, would have all sorts of ridiculous names for their food and drinks.

Sure enough, the special was the "Butte Burger", made from freshly ground rump roast and topped with cheddar cheese and barbecue sauce. This was served with "short and curly" fries. He desperately wanted to simply walk out, but he knew his brother would never let him live it down. Instead, he settled into a booth near the pool tables and pulled out his laptop, figuring he could get some research in and hopefully be able to ignore his brother's wisecracks about the Hole.

Other than the ridiculous name and silly menu items, the Hole was pretty much a carbon copy of every other bar they usually patronized. The floors were sticky with spilled drinks, and the heavy air stank of burnt-out cigarettes, rank cigars, and stale beer, all mixed together with an aura of something Sam liked to think was despair. The place was fairly crowded for a Tuesday night, with several young men playing darts in one corner and a few more gathered around the pool tables. The majority were at the counter, slowly drinking their way into depressed oblivion. This wasn't a tourist bar, despite the efforts of the establishment's name and menu to lure tourists in. This was a working man's bar, frequented primarily by men, but also by a few women who came here after their shifts in the mine, from behind the wheel of a truck, or from any number of other basic blue collar jobs.

Sam always wondered why he never felt as comfortable in these places as Dean did. They had both grown up in the same blue collar lifestyle as these people, but somehow Sam had never really fit in as well as Dean. Then again, being a misfit was the story of his life. He didn't fit in at home, didn't fit in at Stanford, and he didn't even fit in at a neighborhood bar. His gloomy outlook only grew worse as he watched his brother chat with the other guys at the pool tables and flirt with one of the waitresses. Even while Dean took money from the guys he was playing against, they still seemed to like him. As for the girls, women had always fallen all over his brother. Dean was confident and dangerous. It was what so many women seemed to want, at least in short-term relationships.

Sam shook his head to clear some of his depressed thoughts and bent over his laptop again, focusing on his research of the area they were headed to. Bannack State Park was an abandoned mining town in the mountains south of Dillon. It had been in operation as a mining town from around 1862 until the mid-1950s, when it was finally shut down and turned into a state park. There were two campgrounds near the ghost town. The ghost town itself was only open during the day, but quite a few people had slipped in after hours, some of whom were the groups that had been attacked by something. Most of them swore it was the ghost of someone named Henry Plummer. The local police had assumed it was some transient, or at worst one of the local militia trying to scare off the tourists.

Sam started searching for stories about Henry Plummer as Dean continued to drink and chat with the locals while replenishing their ever shrinking cash supply.

Dean felt alive in a way he hadn't for some time. This was what he needed: a simple hunt. He was glad to have a few days where things could be like they used to be. He missed the old, carefree days when he and Sam were young and had traveled the country with their dad, hopping from one town to another, hunting creatures and saving lives. This was the closest he could have to that, a return to the days after he had picked up Sam from Stanford and they had headed out to look for their missing father.

Every so often he would glance over at Sammy; his brother was focused on his laptop and sipping a cold beer. He knew at some level his baby brother was old enough— and certainly big enough—to take care of himself, but Dean always felt better when he could be there to watch over Sam. It had been his job for longer than he could remember, and after all, Sam was all he really had left.

He took a quick swig of whiskey from the shot glass in his hand, grinning and watching one of the men line up his shot at the pool table, his aim just crooked enough to assure Dean that he'd miss. The whiskey was rough and tasted harsh, but it was cheap and the pretty little waitress kept it flowing. The pool tables were running hot and the crowd stayed pleasant. All in all, it was a perfect night.

Around eleven Sam tapped his shoulder and told him he was heading back to the room. Dean decided to stay, asking the waitress to drive him home after her shift.

Six hours later, he stumbled back into the hotel room, dropped onto the empty bead and fell into a deep and, for once, dreamless sleep. Sam stirred a little as his brother came in before drifting back to sleep; he would need to get as much sleep as possible for the rough day ahead that would likely require an early start.

However, dawn came and passed before the boys stirred. Grumbles emanated from under the covers for some time before they eventually dragged themselves out of bed, Sam's hair a rat's nest of tangles, Dean cursing and shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight that lit the room and did nothing to ease his pounding headache.

They both stood staring at the bathroom for a few moments, taking in the cramped, dripping shower and tatty bathmat. They turned to looked at each other for a split second before making a mad scramble for the bathroom. Sam's long legs got him there just ahead of Dean, a feat that he had only been able to accomplish as they had gotten older and Sam had slowly, but surely, overtaken Dean in height. The joy of getting to take a shower while the water was still hot was well worth the crazed rush to the bathroom. Still, Sam wasn't mean enough to extend his time in the shower too much, despite the temptation to get back at his brother for all the years Dean had taken his sweet time in the shower, all but exhausting the coveted supply of hot water.

Instead, he rushed through his shower, bent nearly in half to stay under the flow of water, and hurriedly got dressed. He ended up nicking himself shaving and walked out of the bathroom with a piece of toilet paper held against the cut.

Dean noticed immediately and smirked. "Sammy, do I need to start helping you shave again?"

"Very funny, Dean."

Dean took his time in the bathroom, thankful that this hotel seemed to have a larger supply of hot water than most of the motels they'd stayed in. After picking on Sam's clumsiness, he took extra care shaving his own face. He knew his kid brother would never let him live it down if he nicked himself, especially after razzing Sam for the same mistake.

When he stepped out of the still-steamy bathroom, Sam was sitting at the laptop and taking notes in a small hardbound notebook. Dean finished drying off his chest and dug out a t-shirt from his bag, hanging the towel up in the bathroom to dry. Fifteen minutes later, they were back on the road, heading south toward Dillon.

_Author's Note: This is an updated version that has turned out so much better with the help of ArwnisWholocked. Their help was invaluable and has really improved everything. I still don't own nor claim to own any of the SPN characters. __he locations in this story are all quite real and many of the legends and the history behind many of the ghosts or legends included are based on historical people. Any advice or methods used by the characters to protect themselves from wild animals is not meant to be advice for a real world situation. The author takes no responsibility and will accept no liability if you decide to try these methods to survive alone in the wilderness. This story could be any time after season one. I really wanted to just come up with a little adventure for the brothers without worrying about trying to stick to every little bit of the canon._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The mountains were finally close. Sam was surprised at how much snow capped the peaks. As it was still September, he was used to the month retaining a summery feel. The cool, crisp air of the mountains, however, made it feel far more like winter than late summer. He was glad he had grabbed his jacket, as he was sure it would be much cooler once they were higher up in the mountains.

As they started to drive up the mountain road toward Dillon and Bannack State Park, Sam outlined everything he had learned for Dean.

"Apparently, this ghost town started out as a gold mining town in the late 1800s. At one point it was even the territorial capital of Montana. During its busiest era, it was a major gold supplier for the states. It was one of the go-to places during the gold rush.

"As for Henry Plummer, he was born in Maine, the seventh son of a ship captain. During the gold rush he headed west to make money to help his widowed mother. He traveled all over the west, sometimes elected as the sheriff in one town, and then arrested and jailed in another. He finally ended up in Bannack, Montana. Once there, he started a gang called the Innocents, which eventually grew large enough to need secret handshakes and code words to identify its members. He managed to get himself elected as sheriff of Bannack after running off the original local sheriff. After his election, however, crime increased, and over a hundred people were killed in the community on his watch.

"After a while, people in the town decided to take things into their own hands and formed a group called the Montana Vigilantes. The Vigilantes hanged twenty-four men. One of them fingered Henry Plummer as the leader of the Innocents before he died. So, the Vigilantes hanged Henry Plummer and two of his deputies on the gallows that Plummer had built outside of town," Sam finished, looking up from his notes.

"It sounds like you already solved it," Dean said. "Now all we need to do is find his bones and we'll be done."

"Well, that's the problem," Sam frowned. "He wasn't buried in the local cemetery; he was buried in some shallow grave in a nearby gulch. On top of that, his bones have been dug up twice and moved around, so it might not be that easy. Plus, we don't even know for sure it's his ghost."

"Aw, come on, Sam! Don't be such a pessimist. Maybe this is the one time it works out easily for us," chided Dean with a smile.

"Yeah, right; that's _**really **_likely."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Look, we drive up to this campground, talk to some people, figure out it's his ghost. Then we dig him up, salt his bones, and burn them. Done, easy as pie. Which we _**will**_ be getting when we're done. I have been living too long without pie," he declared dramatically.

Sam groaned at this and leaned his head back against the seat, exasperated. He was sure his brother's stomach was hardwired directly to his brain. It was the only thing that could explain his irrepressible fascination with pie.

The air was crisp and clean as they moved up the road into the mountains, and the drive was smooth sailing all the way to Dillon. Turning off of the main road, they drove along a backstreet into forest. The dark green trees created a canopy over the weathered road, chipmunks and squirrels darting across and disappearing into the soft bed of pine needles covering the ground. Above them, sunlight filtered through the tree branches, which parted every so often to reveal glimpses of the somewhat clouded blue sky.

About ten minutes out of Dillon, the clouds grew dark and ominous, quickly brewing into a furious thunderstorm. Hail bounced and pinged off of the car, and the droves of rain quickly made the road a slick hazard. The Impala slowed to a crawl and Dean cursed under his breath the entire way. It took an extra hour to drive the last few miles to Bannack State Park, slipping and sliding dangerously along the muddy road.

By the time they pulled into the parking lot, the Impala was covered completely in mud and Dean was completely exhausted. The rain had slowed somewhat, so they trudged out onto the park trails, trying their best to ignore the icy trails of water sneaking under their upturned jacket collars into their shirts. Sam's hair dripped rainwater onto his face and jacket in a constant trickle and left a spattered trail around him as they walked into the Visitor's Center.

The park rangers at the desk looked up surprised at the sight of two bedraggled young men wandering in from the rain. The two rangers had settled into a game of cards, figuring no one would be visiting the park during a storm like this.

"Can we help you?" one of the rangers asked, setting down his cards and smiling invitingly.

"Yes; we're here to help investigate the recent attacks at the campground," Dean said officially, smiling back as he pulled out his forged FBI badge.

The rangers exchanged confused looks. "Why is the FBI involving itself in a silly ghost story mess?" asked the other ranger, raising an eyebrow in bemusement.

"Well, we understand it might be one of the local militia groups trying to stir up trouble," Sam responded quickly.

"You guys have a really bad track record when it comes to supposed militia groups in this area..." The first ranger scratched the back of his neck hesitantly. "Are you sure it's such a good idea to come around here investigating like this?"

"That's why we're in casual clothes," Sam explained smoothly. "We don't plan on showing a badge to anyone else out here, but we figured we should let you know we're out here. We planned on setting up camp on the grounds and investigating this situation undercover."

The ranger snorted. "Camping out in this weather? Well, the militia'll just peg you as really dumb tourists, that's for sure… Here, I'll get you a registered spot and a map. From there on out, you're on your own."

"Works for us," Dean agreed. "The more you treat us like any other visitor, the better off and more inconspicuous we'll be."

By the time they had picked out a good campsite and had all the contingencies settled, the rain had moved on and the clouds were beginning to clear. They drove slowly on the still-wet road to their campsite, parking on the side of the road and unloading their supplies—a tent, tarp, and other camping gear. The idea was to pose as two brothers on a road trip.

"Look at this, Sammy; I even brought marshmallows. Maybe, if you're really good, we can roast them later," laughed Dean as they set up camp.

"Ha, ha. You're a regular comedian, Dean."

By mid-afternoon, they had established a decent campsite and were ready to start their investigation of the ghost town. It was a short walk from the campground up to the town. In the late afternoon sun, it looked quite peaceful. The buildings were still filled with carefully preserved furniture and other objects from the mining era. There were still about fifty buildings standing, including a mill, the jail, and the masonic lodge.

They wandered through the dusty streets, glancing at the EMF meter as they walked. Everywhere they turned, the sensors would go off, the monitor showing high levels of feedback. Clearly, there were ghosts or some other supernatural entities all over the settlement; it was, quite literally, a ghost town.

There were a few other tourists wandering around the town. Most of them appeared to be families on vacation or young couples trying to scare each other with ghost stories as they walked around the old town, but nothing out of the ordinary or that drew their attention. Figuring they had seen enough in daylight, the boys headed back to the campground as the sun dipped closer to the horizon.

Sam set to work starting a fire; it felt somewhat odd to burn something just for warmth and cooking purposes, rather than to kill a monster or summon a demon. Dean, in the meantime, pulled hot dogs, pickles, and buns out of a small cooler.

His mouth watering slightly, Sam implored, "Dean, please tell me you brought some ketchup for those things."

"Yes, of course I did! Geez, give me sec."

For the next twenty minutes, they were just two normal guys camping and enjoying a few beers in late summer.

"Hey, did you realize we spent all those years hunting with Dad and never once went camping?" commented Sam as they leaned back against the trees, enjoying the small, cheery fire. People were strolling by on their way to and from the bathrooms, towels and toothbrushes tucked under their arms. Each group would smile at the two young men, some saying hi, others waving or giving a nod of their head.

"Yeah… Well, I don't seem to remember you ever complaining about the chance to take a hot shower and keep up with your girly hair care regimen," Dean jibed genially, smirking at Sam.

"Like you ever wanted to get away from your junk food and comic books!" he retorted.

The two bantered back and forth, waving back at people as they went by. The sound of crickets filled the air as darkness set in, stars peeping out from behind the branches, the silvery moonlight illuminating the woods faintly as Sam added a few more branches to the fire.

About an hour later, a family stopped by their camp. The father, a tall man in a camouflage hunting jacket and accompanied by a young girl, walked up to them with an inviting smile.

"Hi, I'm Richard, Richard Marck. We're out here for a little getaway and history tour," he introduced himself, reaching out his hand.

Dean, immediately noting the holster on the man's hip, stood up to shake the proffered hand. "I'm Dean; this is my brother, Sam. We're just taking a brother bonding trip."

"Sounds great! We're having a little get together up at the Vigilante Campground if you two are interested; there'll be some storytelling and maybe a music jam. There's been some trouble out here lately, so we try to stick together at night, just to make sure everyone is safe and to have a little bit of fun," Richard continued.

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" asked Dean.

Richard shrugged. "All sort of rumors about militia, ghosts, wild dogs… you name it. It's probably nothing; but with the kids here, we just want to play it safe," he explained, reaching down to put a hand on the shoulder of the young girl he had been walking with. "This is Sarah, my daughter, and that's my boy over there, Richard Jr., and their mother, Elizabeth," he said, pointed out each of his family members.

"Nice to meet all of you," smiled Sam. "I think we will join you. I've been traveling alone with this guy for a little too long," he said with a grin.

"Thanks, Sammy boy; you know you love your big brother," Dean teased, gathering a few essentials to walk up to the other camp.

As they began walking, Dean's gaze drifted to the pistol tucked against Richard's leg. "Hey Richard, that's a pretty big hunk of iron you got on your side there. Do you really need that out here?" asked Dean, maintaining an air of mild curiosity as they began walking.

"Hell, son, this is Montana," laughed Richard. "My daughter carries a gun everywhere. We have bears, coyotes, and G-men runnin' all around these parts."

"G-men?" Dean repeated, exchanging a look with Sam. "I figured the feds would be crazy to come out here anymore."

"They aren't as bright as you would think," came Richard's dark reply. His face took on a set and angry look for a moment before he turned back to his family, his expression quickly shifting back to a smile.

The Vigilante Campground was an RV campground. There were three or four brand-new, fancy, and huge RVs parked by each other off to the side, alongside several older campers, each hooked up to a large pick-up truck. Their group walked towards one of the old campers near the middle of the campsite where a group of about twenty to thirty people were gathered around a large fire. There was a keg of beer and a cooler filled with sodas outside the circle; several guys with guitars were perched on logs, laughing and chatting as they strummed away. Several of the people were sitting in small clumps of camp chairs talking amiably, sipping at their drinks and keeping an eye on the children, who were running around, screeching and playing tag and generally getting underfoot.

Richard hadn't been kidding about the guns; almost everyone had some sort of pistol or weapon on them. The more Dean observed the campers, the more he realized that the bulk of them weren't just tourists. Most were likely members of the Montana Militia. They didn't seem like the crazed, dangerous people he expected from the news articles; instead, it was more like a hunters' get-together.

He and Sam stuck together, grabbing cold beers and joining Richard and several other men on one side of the fire. The women were still hard at work—trying to keep the children under control, cleaning up the remains of dinner and tossing the paper plates onto the fire, as well as organizing some kind of dessert. The men were scattered around the large fire drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and talking about the news, the weather, their latest hunting or fishing exploit, or the activities of the day. There were a few men in the group that were tourists from Germany that seemed entranced with the talk of hunting big game and were clearly in love with the wide open spaces around them. Everyone seemed comfortable with Dean and Sam's silence, smiling and introducing themselves cordially before returning to their conversations.

Eventually the kids settled down around the men, and the women stopped their work and joined them. It was time for storytelling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The campers sat around the fire with an air of relaxed anticipation, some of the kids whispering and giggling as they waited for the stories to begin.

"Sam, do you think they're going to make us sing 'Kumbaya'?" whispered Dean in feigned worry.

"No; I don't think they're that kind of campers," came the exacerbated reply.

"Good, cuz I don't think I know the words."

"And God knows you can't sing."

"Bite me."

"Shhh! it's time for the story circle to start," whispered a young voice. It was Sarah, who had settled down between them and her father.

Dean raised an eyebrow at her authoritative stance but quieted down.

Richard stood up and moved closer to the fire so he was near the center of the group. "Most of you have been here before, but we do have a few newcomers here, so I will briefly go over the rules. We will each take a turn in the story circle. You can tell a short story, a poem, or a brief description of something, but you must tell something. We have a lot of kids and some young men traveling alone, so try not to make it too scary," he added, smiling and winking at Dean and Sam; then continued, "If you can't come up with anything… we will make you sing 'Kumbaya'." At this, he looked directly at Dean and laughed. "Okay, not really… but if your story sucks, people will give you a thumbs down. If you get three thumbs down, you have to stop telling your story. If people like your story, they'll give you thumbs up. At the end of the evening, the one with the most thumbs up will get a prize. So since I'm already up here, I'll start."

Clearing his throat, Richard began to tell a story about a ghost he saw during a late fall hunt.

"I had shot a large buck and was tracking it through the snow when I came across an old man sitting on a fallen tree. He asked me if I had any food or water. Well, of course I was willing to share what I had. I walked over to him and handed him the last of my water and breakfast bar. He seemed fine, so I went to back to tracking my deer. When I got back to the deer path—only five feet away, mind you— I turned around."

He paused for effect, glancing around at the raptured faces of the young children and noting the somewhat bored expressions of many of the adults. As he finished, Dean could hear Sarah muttering his closing line with him: "The old man was _**gone**_."

Obviously, this was an old favorite of Richard's. He got a few thumbs up, but mostly from his family. He walked to the edge of the group and picked an older man to tell the next story.

"Hi, everyone!" the man greeted the group. "Pretty nice night after all that rain, eh? Glad we have this nice fire going, though.

"So, I guess the theme tonight is ghost stories… I might have one of those for you. As most of you know, I grew up in New Mexico. We had a lot of ranch hands that had come up from Mexico under one of those migrant worker programs in the late '60s. Of course, as a boy I spent most of my time on horseback with the ranch hands running after cattle, hunting coyotes, and sharing great nights around camp fires just like this. Well, one cool evening, we were settling into our bedrolls; the fire had died down, and I was staring up at the stars, wondering if Neil Armstrong was somewhere up there, traversing the stars and looking down at us. It was June of 1969. As I lay there, I could hear the men around me slowly falling to sleep. Suddenly, a woman walked into the camp. She was wearing a pale, tattered white dress; the ends of the cloth were all shredded and torn. Her hair was dark and matted, but still very long. Her skin was as pale as her dress. She moved quietly and softly on bare feet, ignoring the thorns and rocks she had to have been stepping on.

"As she neared me, I sat up, figuring she must be in trouble. I had all sorts of ideas crossing my mind about rescuing her and being a hero just like Andy Devine or Gene Autry." A few of the older campers laughed at his references to the old movie stars, and he smiled somewhat nostalgically.

"She moved towards me more quickly than I thought possible and leaned down towards me," he went on, his tone growing more serious. "As her face came closer, the fire flared slightly and I got my first good view of her face. This was no human; her eyes were pitch black and she had fangs like a snake. She reached out for me with fingers that ended in long talons." A few of the younger kids gasped, drawing sniggers from the older boys.

"I was paralyzed by fear just looking into her cruel and evil face. Her talons latched onto my shoulder and the pain freed me from that paralyzed state. I screamed and tried to pull away as her face came closer to my neck. One of the men leaped up and hit her with his shovel. The rest of the men began to wake up and grab weapons; she finally let me go and ran into the desert. The men cleaned out the cuts on my shoulder and set a guard for the rest of the night." The man ended his somewhat ominous tale and sat down, leaving his audience somewhat thoughtful, many of the older kids whispering teasingly to their siblings, likely trying to scare the younger ones with fanciful stories and wild imaginations.

Several other people told various stories as the night progressed. Some were scary, others were funny; but they all seemed focused on the strange creatures of the night. Many of the little kids had fallen asleep and were being put to bed by their parents. Soon, it was only the teenagers and adults left. Sam and Dean were trying to figure out a way to leave without being noticed so they could go track down the ghost of Henry Plummer, when they pulled Dean up to take a turn.

He put on what Sam considered his "Aw, shucks" face, where he tried to look embarrassed, but was secretly pleased to be the center of attention.

"It looks like most of the little kids have left… Is it safe to tell something truly scary?" Dean started off. He looked out at the partially shadowed faces and saw several affirming nods.

"Well, my brother and I have spent most of our lives hunting various… predators. We only hunt creatures that have killed humans, so it's usually very dangerous." Noting that the audience's interest was clearly piqued, Dean forged on.

"Well, one night we're out in Black Water Ridge hunting something that had killed several campers. We assumed it was a bear, so we'd brought what we thought was more than enough firepower. So we get out to the mountain and find a woman and her little brother at the trail head. They say they're going to search for their older brother who was missing in the woods. We tried to convince them to wait at the base of the trail, but they wouldn't be dissuaded. Thus, we figured it was better if they went with us instead."

Sam realized Dean was retelling their encounter with the Wendigo, so he tuned out somewhat and paid closer attention to the people watching. His brother had a real flare for the dramatic when he wanted to, and the crowd seemed wrapped up in the story. When several started laughing and looking at him, he focused back on his brother's words.

"So of course, there's poor Sammy covered in mud, laying at the bottom of that tree complaining that a Wendigo had kicked him off the hill!" Dean had clearly finished up with a story that ended nothing like their real adventure with the Wendigo.

"Hey, it could have been! Those things are dangerous," laughed Sam.

Dean had gotten a lot of thumbs up, but there were still two people left to tell their stories. Dean looked over at his brother and then across the circle at a young woman who had not told her story yet. With a little smile at his brother, he walked over to the young lady instead.

She shook her head, clearly uninterested in sharing, but soon everyone was encouraging her to go ahead. She was only about five feet and three inches tall, so Dean dragged over a tree stump for her to stand on so everyone could see her more easily.

She looked even more nervous as she stepped up onto the stump. The firelight reflected in her hair made the blonde locks take on a dark, golden hue. She coughed a couple of times, took a long drink from her beer and began.

"I grew up just a little ways down the hill from here in a hunting camp. It's not an easy life homesteading out here. If the cold or the snow doesn't kill you, and hunger doesn't starve you out, then it might be a bear or a wolf that does you in."

Her voice carried surprisingly well in the cold air. As she talked she seemed to lose some of her nervousness and get into the story. "My father used to bring us up here to see the mining town and further up the road to dig for crystals during the mid-summer when the hunts were closed. We never had a fancy RV like the ones parked around here… Instead, we would set up a tarp as a lean-to to keep the rain out, and we'd put our sleeping bags under it. Back then they didn't have the bear-proof boxes to put your food in. We would tie it up inside an old army duffel and pull it up into the trees, real high.

"I guess I was about twelve when it happened... I was on that cusp between a girl and a woman and I wasn't sure if I wanted to grow up yet, even though it wasn't really a choice. My mother was sending me away to a fancy boarding school that fall. She wanted me to learn to be a lady or at least learn something other than hunting and fishing. That was going to be my last trip with my father for a while and we planned on doing it up right. He bought me a new knife. It was a grown-up knife that was hand made by a real blacksmith. The lady he bought it from said it was designed for a woman to help protect her." The young lady's hand strayed to her side and touched the hilt of a small hunting knife, a small, fond smile gracing her features before fading into a slight frown.

"I often wonder if she somehow knew what we would face that trip. We had set up camp and headed down to the creek to try and get some fresh fish for dinner. I was so proud of my knife, I used it every chance I got. I used it to cut our fishing line, chop up the bait, dig out a leech from my brother's leg, and anything else I could think of. We managed to catch a few small trout, but it was getting very dark by then. We began the walk back to the campground, but we somehow got turned around and ended up in the town instead. Eventually, my dad figured out which way needed to go and we started to trek back to camp. My brother and I were dirt tired by then and arguing back and forth something terrible. Dad was so patient with us… He would distract us best he could and just tell us to quit arguing, that someday we would know how special it was to have family, and we would regret all the fighting.

"After a while, we were too tired to fight anymore and we just trudged along in silence. That's when I first heard him. Off to the side, behind one of the buildings, I could hear a deep voice. It sounded a little wrong… almost like he was from another country or something. Later, I learned that what I heard was a Northeastern coastal accent. At the time, I just knew it was foreign, and foreign usually meant trouble for us. I stopped to listen for this voice, my hand on the hilt of my new knife.

She laughed a little drily. "I thought I was prepared for anything. My dad and brother hadn't yet noticed that I had stopped and were about fourteen to twenty feet ahead of me. I could hear the voice much more clearly now, as though it were only a few feet away. He kept saying, 'You should go, little girl; this is no place for you. You should go.'

"The voice seemed closer and closer with each word and by the last go, it was right next to my ear. I turned real slow, scared of what I might see since I couldn't feel anyone next to me. There was nothing there. I relaxed a bit and turned back to try to catch up with my father… And _**he**_ was standing there."

She swallowed a little nervously, her voice shaking slightly. "The man was fairly tall, but kind of slender and hunched, like he'd been sick a lot. He had a long beard, but it didn't cover his cheeks. I remember thinking at the time how strange his beard was. It was quite thick and long, but I couldn't understand why it didn't cover all of his face. I was startled, but not really scared; he was just sort of standing there.

"I started to try to move around him to get to my dad when his arm snaked out and grabbed me by the shoulder. His hands were cold, like a bitter winter morning… and as he dragged me closer, his eyes looked crazed. His teeth were half rotted and he was coughing up some kind of thick phlegm. I pulled out my knife and stabbed his arm with it. He let out a scream, one like I have never heard before, and disappeared. My dad came running back towards me. I tried to tell him to stop; I could see several more creatures gathering between us, but he didn't seem to see or care… He just came running to help me. He almost made it when Henry Plummer reappeared and dragged my father away to the gallows. I tried to catch up to them, but then I saw several others had grabbed my little brother, so I ran to him instead. I stabbed the other ghosts—and yes, by then I had figured out they were ghosts—and they each disappeared, but these didn't come back. My brother was cold to the touch and coughing, but he was still alive and able to run. I grabbed his hand and we ran straight for the ranger station. Of course, by the time we were able to convince them something was wrong, our father was dead, hanging from the gallows on the edge of town."

She stepped down, her audience completely silent, and walked up to Sam. Looking up at him, she gave a little smile and said, "Top that, big guy."

She had gotten at least as many thumbs up as Dean; Sam was wondering if her story was true or not. She had seemed to shift from shy and reserved into a real performer over the course of the story. Of course, that would be a very good storytelling trick, too.

Sam took a few moments to walk to the center area. He was still trying to figure out what kind of story he could tell. He had some really scary ones, but wasn't sure if he wanted to share anything that personal. Instead, he decided he would rather tell something funny.

"So as my brother mentioned earlier, we have gone on a lot of hunts. In fact, the first thing I remember is driving around the country, sitting in the back of a '67 Impala. We took that car everywhere. Our dad also traveled for work, so we would move a lot, and ended up in a lot of interesting places.

"This happened in Fort Smith, Arkansas when I was around twelve. Dean was considered old enough to watch over me at that point, so our Dad left us alone for week. This was the first time we would be left in charge of ourselves for that long. Well, during the week we kept our noses clean because the school would've called him in a heartbeat if we missed any classes. Still, come Friday night we were both bored. So of course, we did what every young man does when left alone: made hot chocolate and played board games." This elicited some chuckles, and Sam smiled, too.

"Yeah… What we _**really**_ did was decide to go on a hunt of our own. Dean said he knew of a really horrible creature that was causing problems in a wheat field on the outskirts of town. He told me it was a medium-sized bird that would lure predators deeper and deeper into the field; then, once they were well into the field, the rest of the creatures, which he called snipes, would circle the predator and attack. He claimed they would peck apart a large dog in a matter of minutes and that they were known to attack humans, too. We came up with a great plan for how to handle this. I would track the creature into the field. Dean would follow quite a distance behind, and when they circled me to attack, he would start shooting them. Hey, I was twelve; I would have done anything for my big brother," smiled Sam as several people chuckled and shook their heads in amazement.

"Looking back now, I realize it was not the best idea of my life. I am sad to say I have made dumber decisions, but almost all of those involved a girl. Well, Dean and I worked up our plan and were all set to go out the next night. Of course, per Dean, these snipes would only come out at night. I spent most of the next day at the library, while Dean went to the video arcade with his buddies. I tried to study, but all I could think about was how amazing it would be when Dad came home and learned that we had killed this pest on our own. Just after sunset, I met Dean at our motel room and we headed out to the fields. At the edge of the field, he handed me a flashlight and sent me in.

"I walked a short distance and came across some strange bird tracks. They were fat, with three prongs leading out in front, and a thick fat base that was deeper than the rest. They seemed to move a little haphazardly, but they were moving further into the field. Within about ten minutes, I couldn't see anything around me. Back then I was really fairly short and kind of wiry. Well, I couldn't see Dean, and I couldn't see anything in front of or beside me, so I just focused on following the tracks. They led me further into the field and I was starting to get tired when I came to a clearing. It looked just like a crop circle. A huge round area of wheat had been crushed down in a spiral. I shone the light around the clearing and noticed a vaguely bird-like shape on the far end. This was it; I was prepared to face this creature. After all, even though I couldn't see him, I knew my big brother would be there for me.

"I started across the field, wondering what had flattened the wheat and why the bird wasn't moving. I was about halfway across when I realized I didn't want to be there anymore. I just wanted to go home and be done. I couldn't see my brother, but I knew how disappointed in me he would be if I just left… So I took a deep breath and moved slowly into the center of the field. I kept the light on the creature as I moved closer, still wondering why it hadn't moved. There was no sound but my breathing and footsteps. The field was oddly silent— no sounds of bugs buzzing, no birds in the distance; even the slight evening breeze had died down.

The ground felt wrong under my feet— slightly soft and almost springy. I told myself I was just being jumpy and to just relax.

"I had succeeded in this by the time I reached the exact center of the circle… Then the ground all around me exploded. Dirt and wheat chaff were everywhere; I couldn't see anything, and the dust reflected the light from my flashlight and blinded me. There were cackling, howling things screeching behind that dust; one knocked the flashlight from my hands, and others seemed to just barely touch me as though they were taunting me. I may have let out a scream at that point," he admitted a little sheepishly.

Dean interjected, "Come on; you screamed like a little girl! You can admit it!"

The crowd laughed again, but leaned in, interested and wondering what this creature really was.

"Well, I thought I was a goner for sure," Sam went on. "I just knew those things were going to peck me apart before my brother could even get close. In fact, I thought I could hear Dean's voice somewhere yelling my name and I began to worry that they already had him too. These things began to attack; one knocked me down and soon others were piling on top. I fought as hard as I could, but there were just too many of them. Once I was immobile, they seemed to pause. I lay there as the dust settled; and in the dim glow of the flashlight, the creatures began to become clearer— I could make out general shapes, then more details. Bit by bit, they were revealed as the dust settled and my breathing slowed. The strange cackling noise continued. It had to be the alpha creature. I just knew it was waiting to get the first bite…

"But then the light shifted slightly and I got my first good look at what was holding me down. It was my brother's buddies. I yelled out at Dean, who stepped into the light and continued to laugh at me. 'You really believed all that crap about Snipes? Man, you should have seen the look on your face…' He continued to laugh as his friends helped me up and started dusting me off. One of them handed me a soda, while the rest of them cracked open beers and they told me I was a semi-official member of their club. It didn't keep me from kicking Dean in the shin when he got close, but it made the rest of the teasing a little more bearable."

The crowd laughed pretty hard, especially when Dean and Sam got into a little mock fight as Sam walked back to the edge of the circle to sit down.

Sam got just enough thumbs up to win the prize, which turned out to be a homemade blackberry pie. Sam reached it up high above his head, shaking his finger at his brother. "This is _**my **_pie." This, of course, got more laughs from the group. There was blackberry cobbler, peach cobbler, and other pies set out for the rest of the crew, however, so Dean didn't complain too much.

The young lady who had gone just before Sam came over and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Beth, and that really should have been my pie," she joked. "Of course, you gave people a good laugh with your scare; and a lot of them were probably scared you were actually a sasquatch and didn't want to anger you."

Sam grinned back. "Hey, you told me top yours! What else did you expect?" He winked. "Anyway, I'm Sam, and that, of course, is my illustrious, pie-thieving, big brother, Dean." He pulled his pie out of Dean's reach as he finished. "But, hey, this is a lot of pie… Before I'm forced to share with Dean, would you like to have a slice?"

She smiled. "Sure; I brought coffee to go with it," she said, lifting up a large thermos.

"You were really sure you were getting this pie, weren't you?" laughed Sam as they settled down near the fire.

"Oh, well, I did have the only real ghost story tonight so of course I thought I would win. I have to admit your brother's story about the Wendigo wasn't too bad, either," Beth conceded, nodding at Dean.

"True ghost story? You really lost your dad that way?" asked Dean as he stared greedily at the pie, which Sam was now preparing to cut.

"Yes, I did," Beth said, her tone growing more serious. "The rangers think that I made up the ghost story part. They declared his death a suicide; but my brother and I… we knew the truth. It's part of why I'm up here now."

"Oh, yeah; someone mentioned there were some attacks up here. We thought they might just be pulling our legs."

"There have been several people killed exactly the way my father was murdered," Beth informed them. "But the worst part, the part no one is talking about, is the missing children. For every adult killed there was at least one child, but sometimes two, who disappeared at the same time."

"Missing kids, too… Man, that's bad. Isn't anyone looking for them?" asked Sam, a concerned frown creasing his forehead as he handed Dean the first slice of pie, a somewhat sickeningly large wedge oozing dark, sugary juices.

Beth paused as she observed the huge piece of pie Sam had given Dean. "Dear Lord; you two are giants and eat like them, too... Please don't try to feed me half the pie like that," she pleaded, pouring cups of coffee for herself and the boys.

"Oh, no; that's just to keep Dean quiet long enough for _**us**_ to get some pie," grinned Sam reassuringly. He handed her a more reasonably-sized slice and took another for himself. He set the rest of the pie off to the side, just out of the reach of Dean, who was diving into his pie wholeheartedly, making appreciate "hmm-mm"s and "ah"s as he proceeded to devour each and every crumb of his slice.

"Geez; I don't see how he hasn't ended up weighing 500 pounds eating like that…" smirked Beth.

Sam laughed, winking at Dean; Dean shot them both a glare while shoving another forkful of the nearly perfect pie into his mouth.

Sam accepted a cup of coffee from Beth with a smile and took a small bite of pie himself. The sweet and tart berries burst in his mouth, flooding it with tongue blackberry flavor. This was beyond good. He had never really had anything like this. Homemade, baked with fresh berries in a hand-formed crust, the pie was excellent. He stopped thinking for a moment and just focused on eating.

"This is what pie should taste like," he said as he took a second and third bite, washing the lot down with the delicious hot coffee Beth had poured him. For once, he understood his brother's love affair with pie.

Beth nodded. "Now you see why I wanted to win that pie. Marie Elizabeth is the best baker I've ever met; her pies are like manna from heaven."

The trio sat quietly enjoying the pie for a few minutes. The crackle of the fire and the low drone of voices in groups around them was a soothing accompaniment to their dessert.

Finally, Beth spoke up to answer Sam's question on the kids.

"Look… People around here don't really trust the government any more. After Ruby Ridge over in Idaho, the mess in Waco, Texas, and the multiple incidents of people up here getting arrested, beaten, or shot for no apparent reason, they don't like to involve the police in anything. So nobody's mentioned the missing the kids to the cops. Most of us are up here to hunt for those kids, really— secretly, of course. But we know they have to be here somewhere."

"I take it you guys are all part of a group of some kind," guessed Dean.

"Yes… Sort of, not quite like the government claims. But we're a group of people that stick together and help one another."

"Would you be willing to accept our help?" smiled Sam.

"Of course! Why else would I have mentioned it? You said you had experience in hunting, right? We need someone to help track down whatever or whoever took these kids and kill it."

"That we can definitely do," Sam assured her. "Trust me, we have a lot of experience with creatures of many kinds."

"Good. You're camping down there with that old black car, right?"

"She is not just an old black car," grumbled Dean, a hurt look on his face. Sam rolled his eyes and nodded at Beth.

"Alrighty, then. I'll meet you at your camp a little after dawn with some decaf or a valium, and we can head out," smiled Beth.

"Valium?" Dean repeated, confused.

"Dean, I think she's a little concerned with your overreaction to the description of the Impala," Sam grinned.

"Yeah, well, maybe she needs to learn something about cars."

"Geez, boys and their cars… I forgot how they can get." She winked at Dean. "Fine! I will meet you by that lovely, classic vehicle right after dawn," she laughed, gathering up their dishes and heading towards the makeshift kitchen off to one side of the campground.


End file.
